Adora awakened me by the simple expedient of kicking me in the stomach. It was morning. I evidently had fallen out of bed. She was standing there, dressed for work.
"Listen, you (bleep)," she said, "you're sleeping too much. Get up and around and stir yourself. Go for a walk. Get some air. A hell of a looking husband you are. You're developing prison pallor. Are you listening?"
"Yes," I said apprehensively, watching her feet at the
level of my face. My head felt like a balloon and I was afraid she'd kick it and burst it.
"I woke you up to give you some good news," she said. "A compulsory attendance staff meeting has been called at Octopus. It's a lecture on abortion with a live demonstration by some new star of the psychiatric world, Dr. Crobe. He's just another (bleeping) quack like they all are, but I know it will go on half the night with Rocke-center drooling. Did you know the (bleepard) fired poor Teenie?"
I was watching her feet carefully.
"The rotten ape was giving a personal staff inspection the way he does every month and he spotted she was full of semen. He had her kicked clear down the stairs."
Something was awry. "That isn't what she said."
"Has Teenie been here?"
"She was on the phone," I lied quickly. There might be something wrong with telling the truth and it's always safer to prevaricate in such moments.
"Well, the Chief of Security was my source and he was right there. He may be a (bleep) but he doesn't lie. The poor kid is so uneducated she didn't even know enough to take a douche after she was here. So there went my plans. But never mind, I'll find other uses for her. Anyway, that's beside the point. One of the girls last night said you looked like a warmed-over corpse. So get out and around and get some air. Then maybe tomorrow night you can put on a better show."
She left and I was very glad to no longer have feet with a kick impulse in them near my head. Belatedly, the corpse remark struck me. Was somebody intending to make me into a corpse?
I was sort of confused. Maybe I had better look at the viewers.
Crobe was busy preparing lecture notes and knives. Heller was just then taking a look all around the horizon from some high place. Nothing in sight-not even a ship. Lords, he must be a long way away.
Krak's was blank.
I felt sort of fixated on the viewers. There was something wrong here. It eluded me. I concentrated very hard. If Heller was far away and still on the viewer and Krak wasn't on the viewer, then Krak had to be further away.... I sort of gave it up. Something was odd.
A bright voice almost made me jump out of my wits. "Those morning programs don't have any good rock groups on them. And you have to get the soap operas in the afternoon to get good sex. So why are you watching TV at this time of day? God, do YOU need education!"
Teenie.
"How the Hells did you get in here?"
"I took your key yesterday. I had it copied. Here's yours back. I'm on my way to school. I can't stay long."
"Good! You wore the hell out of me yesterday."
"Really trained, hey?" she said, grinning like a ghoul. "Shows you what education can do. I'm so glad you liked it. But the reason I stopped by was to tell you I can't be here this afternoon."
"Wonderful. I hope you're leaving for China for a ten-year postgraduate course!"
"No, no. The crash course is not that long. It's only a couple weeks. That's why I have to put in extra time this afternoon. I have an appointment for a special rundown on hygiene and disease control. Special demonstrations."
I flinched. "Disease?" I had specters of suddenly coming down with all kinds of oriental germs. "Look," I said anxiously, "yesterday, before you were here, you
hadn't just done it with a bunch of Chinese men, had you?"
She gave her ponytail a sad tug. "That is what is so frustrating. It's not the old Chinese method. It's the new, scientific Chinese system. They use probes and meters. They set a probe to register just one muscle and put it in you. It's hooked up to a big scope and you watch the scope. Then you have to learn to locate that muscle yourself and when you do, it shows up on the scope. It's like learning to wiggle your ears. Once you find the muscle yourself, you can move it. You get so you can locate and independently move each muscle at will." She sighed. "But there are absolutely dozens of different muscles. It's pretty tedious, sorting them all out with nothing in you but a probe. But look."
Before I could stop her, she opened her coat and pulled her skirt up above her flat, thin belly. She had a single muscle in her stomach moving. "I had a (bleep) of a time finding that one." She sat down and fanned her legs apart and pointed to the inside of her thigh. "But the nerve-impulse exercises are the worst. See the tape mark? They put an electrode on you, one place at a time. It's joined up to a big scope, too. And you learn to send an energy impulse at that exact point and if you master it, it shows up on the scope. You have to get so you can send energy surges through about fifty different places and THEN learn how to block them. After that, it gets a bit more interesting. You have to be able to do it yourself on another body."
"Cover yourself up," I said. "I feel terrible."
"What interests me, though," she said as though I had not spoken, "is the daily hour of sexual choreography. Watch!" She leaped up, pulled her coat and skirt up under her armpits and her hips went into a very fast
rotating grind. "That's the siva-siva. The Chinese say they taught it to the Tahitians long ago. Isn't it wild? I can just stand here relaxed and rotate like this for hours. It sort of feels good, too. And there's dozens of these." She pve a leap and came down grinding against a chair in a new way.
The bounce and sudden movements to which she was prone made my eyes and head hurt, just watching. "Please leave," I pleaded. "I feel utterly awful!"
She stopped. "Jesus Christ, Inky. Haven't you got any appreciation for art either?" She came over and looked at me, her big eyes a lot too close. She put her hand on my forehead. "Hey, Inky. Have you got a headache?"
"You got the idea," I said.
"And after all that good therapy I gave you, too," she said. "Have you been eating something or drinking something?"
"Gin," I said with a shudder.
"GIN? With pot? Oh, Jesus Christ, Inky, you need some time on the streets. You NEVER mix alcohol with drugs, you dumb (bleep)! You could kill yourself. And yesterday. Maybe the night before. Did you drink anything?"
"Vodka."
"Well, Jesus Christ, Inky. No wonder the good old grass didn't work yesterday. Honest to Pete, Inky, you need a nursemaid."
"Not you," I flinched.
"And I thought all the time something must be wrong with the Acapulco Gold. Jesus, Inky. You listen to me. You lay off that alcohol. It's the killer. Stick with pot every time."
She ran off and rummaged around in the bathroom
and came back with two bottles and a glass of liquid. "Vitamin Bi. And aspirin." I was trying to push the glass away. "It's just water," she said. "Now be a good boy and open your mouth." She literally poured the bottle of Bi into my mouth and made me wash it down. Then she gave me two aspirin and made me wash them down. She looked at her watch: it was a new one, Mickey Mouse's hands pointing the time. "Jesus Christ, I'm going to be late for school if I don't run the whole way. When I'm gone, fix yourself some strong coffee. And next time, don't go running down pot! Alcohol! You're too stupid to live!"
I gave her as hard a scowl as I could manage. "(Bleep)!" I said.
She picked up her purse and went to the door. She stopped. She said, "It's too bad you're such a no-good, unappreciative jerk, Inky. You need your diapers changed constantly but who'd bother."